


The Janitor

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: A little bit of blood, Community: daredevilbingo, Gen, Post Punisher season 1, background claire temple, background defenders - Freeform, daredevilexchange, post Daredevil season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-13 03:58:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Fogwell's gets a janitor.





	The Janitor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IceQueen1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceQueen1/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [The Janitor 保洁员(翻译/Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426150) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



> For IceQueen1's prompt, [White Flag by Joseph](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3kXDMPwfMc) ([lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/joseph/whiteflag.html)). The story of course veered in a direction i hadn't planned at all, but who is surprised?  
> Also covers my _Black Pyjamas_ [Daredevil Bingo card](https://titconao3.dreamwidth.org/782.html) prompt.  
> Happy Holidays, i hope you like this!  
> Thanks to [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the beta ♥  
> Now with a translation - wow!

José had always lived in this neighborhood. He remembered its history, its faces, its voices. Its silences, too. Most of the time, he didn’t think about any of it too much. He had to make enough money to get by, and if these days he didn’t have anyone left there still was Mrs. Cho who needed a hand with her sick dog or Mr. Ndiaye whose three boys came by for help with their Spanish homework.

José was never sitting on his hands.

Finding odd jobs here and there in Hell’s Kitchen had been easier once Daredevil and the two lawyers Elena had talked about had put that Fisk _cabrón_ behind bars, but then he’d come back again.

Those had been hard times, but now things were looking up. He just had to find a new job, and he’d be all set. Mr. Theo at Nelson’s Meats had said to go to Fogwell’s, the old gym that had closed a few months ago. He said that it had opened again and that they were looking for someone to help around, so José paid for Mrs. Stricker’s sausages and went to Fogwell’s before taking her groceries back to her apartment. Maybe just looking around a gym would make tackling the many stairs easier on his old bones.

There was cardboard over a broken pane in the door and the paint was peeling on the wood, but he could hear voices inside. José pushed the door open and for a few seconds he was back thirty-odd years earlier, back when his knees didn’t creak. It hadn’t changed much; some posters from back then were still on the walls. There were still a few guys training. A girl, too – that was new.

He spotted a cardboard sign with an arrow pointing upstairs and the names “Page, Nelson & Murdock” printed under it. Someone had added _\+ Gym Office_ under it in black Sharpie. José went up.

He knocked on the open door, and a young woman with long hair looked up and smiled. “Hi,” she said. “How can we help? Oh, um, are you here for the gym or the law practice?”

He waved his bag. “Mr. Theo, he said there was work here? I’m looking for a job.”

“Mr. Theo?” A blond man with a suit that looked too nice for the place popped his head out of a door to the right and did a double-take when he saw José’s bag. “Oh, that’s my brother. Yes, we’re looking for a janitor, for the gym and our practice.”

“Foggy, do you think we can afford it? Danny’s loan has to last until we start coming into our own, covering out costs and such.” She narrowed her eyes, the man widened his.

“Ms… Page?”

Both turned their heads to look at him. “You worked with Elena, yes? Elena Calderas. Before she was killed? I recognize you.”

“We did, yes.”

“Elena… I lived in that building, _t_ _ambién_.”

Miss Karen glanced at – Mr. Nelson, he remembered now; Elena had talked about them a lot – and said, “we need a janitor, a few hours a day. It wouldn’t be much, especially not at first.”

“That’s all right, I’ll take whatever you can give me. I don’t need much.”

They shook on it after agreeing to meet the next day for the finer points, and José went to Mrs. Stricker’s. Sausages shouldn’t wait too long outside of the fridge.

 

A few weeks later, José had settled into his routine. Ms. Karen had told him to call her by her name, and Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock had too; but it felt too weird. They were the bosses, after all. But he couldn't say no to Ms. Karen, and so they'd compromised. She had given him a key, and he could come and go as he pleased as long as the place was cleaned. He usually came to the gym either early in the morning or late in the evening, depending on when he was free from his other odd jobs. It was generally quiet then, apart from the lawyer who sometimes trained all alone, hitting bags hard and fast. Mr. Murdock was blind, so that made sense he didn’t train with other people. _Yes_ , Ms. Karen had said. _It would be too dangerous_.

Mr. Murdock didn’t chat much when he worked out, but he was always polite. José remembered the story about the kid, the boxer’s kid who’d become blind after pushing a guy out of the way of a truck. So that was what he’d become all these years later: an attorney. _His dad would be proud_ , José thought; and once he’d connected all the dots he always paid special attention to the poster of Battlin’ Jack’s last fight. Not that Mr. Murdock would know, but it felt right to keep it spotless. Not a speck of dust on the small frame with the photo, either.

Mr. Nelson and Ms. Karen had noticed, and she’d winked at him and he’d given him a thumbs-up one morning when they’d arrived just before he left, off to help at the laundry two blocks over.

 

He kept the place as clean as a boxing gym could be, but it was still old, and repairs were needed. José didn’t have the required skills, and to be honest he wasn’t sure they had the means to hire anyone. Sure, the gym had regulars who paid to use the equipment, but Fogwell’s had always been cheap and it probably still was. Ms. Karen said it was a gym, a law practice and a _key neighborhood landmark_ , whatever that was. She said she wanted to organize _community events_ there, but both Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock seemed unconvinced. Ms. Karen usually got her way though, so it would probably happen once some work had been done.

 

These attorneys seemed to attract strong characters, José had noticed. There was Ms. Karen of course, but also the small woman who always wore a leather jacket, whatever the temperature; and the tiny nun who came to watch some boxing a few evenings a month. Sometimes she disappeared into Mr. Murdock’s office. He’d gone to a Catholic orphanage, maybe that was how he knew her. José had never dared asked her if she knew the young nun in the background of the small picture on the wall. Maybe lots of nuns were into boxing?

Other people came regularly, too.

There was Mr. Nelson’s lady; she was also a lawyer but in a big, posh firm. She came in with him some mornings, or she picked him up in the evenings when she decided he was working too late.

She got into a glaring contest once with Ms. Karen over what clients they should or shouldn’t take, but Mr. Nelson said it was a good thing if the clients he’d worked for at his former job had followed him to Fogwell’s, even if they didn’t pay much; and that they already were making more than enough to pay rent and that everything would work out. That’s when José leaned his lady’s name: Marci.

 

There was a nurse too, Claire, that Mr. Murdock had convinced to come once or twice a month to do first aid talks and such for people in Hell’s Kitchen. She spoke Spanish to him, so José thought she was extra nice. He missed rapid-fire conversation in his mother’s tongue. Her boyfriend was a huge guy, and while she did her talks he’d poke around and help with any heavy lifting. He looked vaguely familiar, like the leather jacket woman and the skinny blond guy who had apparently given money to reopen Fogwell’s. Rich skinny blond guy dressed like a hobo but his girlfriend was always carrying a giant sword on her back, so José was extra quiet when they were around.

 

And then, there was Mr. Castiglione.

“Pete,” he’d said when José had met him on the evening Ms. Karen had brought him to Fogwell’s. So José tried to call him Pete, but he didn’t really feel like a Pete. He kept to himself, mostly. He was good at all the small (and less small) repairs the place needed. He fixed the leak in the showers, he changed the broken glass pane in the door, he brought new heavy bags and hung them one evening with Claire’s boyfriend. Mr. Casti – Pete was no small guy himself, but those bags were not easy to move on your own.

Pete had thick hair and an even thicker beard, and it was as if he hid behind it. Sometimes José thought he might look a little familiar, but then again beards were in fashion these days. He spoke a little to Ms. Karen and Mr. Murdock, but Mr. Nelson seemed a little wary of him and José couldn't blame him. The man was gruff, built like a tank and seemed lost in his mind sometimes. One evening, as they watched him sand the bathroom door before repainting it, Ms. Karen told him about Pete. That he was a friend of hers and a former Marine, that he’d lost his wife and kids, that he was trying to go back to civilian life. She said he’d probably see him use the gym too at some point, to keep in shape.

The next week, when he found himself alone at Fogwell’s with Pete, he walked up to him and said, “Thank you for your service, sir.”

Pete had looked down at him and frowned a little. “José?” His mouth worked a little, as if he was not sure what he wanted to say. “Thanks.” He looked around. “Good job with the place,” he finally says.

“You too.”

Pete grunted, jerked a thumb behind him at the boxing ring, and turned back to the canvas he’d been replacing. José went back to mopping the floor tiles, and that was that.

 

All in all, José didn’t talk to a lot of people. He was more of a watcher, José was, especially at Fogwell’s. The hours he kept were the quiet ones, and when someone was there the same time he was they were quiet, too; like Mr. Murdock working the bag in long-sleeved t-shirts or Pete sanding or painting or fixing whatever needed fixing or painting or sanding.

One night, he found Pete carefully unpinning the posters from the wall, and also the small photograph of Mr. Murdock's’ dad on the ring. José watched him, but Pete didn’t seem to need any help. He set them all flat on the ring, and went out to his old truck. He brought back some large frames, not new but freshly varnished, and he set them against the ring.

“You a local?” Pete asked after a while.

“Yeah.”

“Remember those names?”

“Some,” José answered. He didn't have a good memory for names, but the pictures helped. “Remember Battlin’ Jack.”

Pete grunted. “Any good?”

“Never stayed down,” José answered. “A real fighter. People liked him around here.”

“Heard that ‘bout him, yeah.” Pete opened one of the second-hand frames and gently slid one poster inside. “His kid still worships him, you know. Says he doesn’t, but he does.”

“Mr. Murdock?”

“Yeah.”

“Old man died young, _s_ _í_?”

“Yeah.” Pete smoothed the paper before closing the frame over it. “It’s fucked up, you know. Parents dying too young, or kids before their parents. Not like it should be.” José bowed his head. “Any kids?”

“Nah. My girl, she, you know. So. No.”

“I’m sorry, man.”

José shrugged. “We were happy.” For many years, they were. He kept that to himself. Pete hadn’t had that long with his family, Ms. Karen had said.

“When you got it, don’t let go, you know?” Pete opened another frame.

José nodded, and contemplated the floor. It had dried as they talked, and so he took his cart back to the closet before leaving. He’d finished for tonight, and he knew whatever mess Pete did he’d clean it before leaving himself.

A couple scars were visible on his arms, half-hidden under his tank top. José wondered how he got them. Knife? Gun? Shrapnel? José didn’t know anything about war, but Pete had been working here for a while now and some of those didn’t look that old. But maybe they _were_ that old, after all. How would he know?

“You ever thought about boxing?” he asked.

Pete got a tape out and started measuring stuff: the frames, the walls, things José didn’t know needed to be measured. “I fight, I fought too much already.”

“Fair enough.”

He made marks where he wanted the frames to go, but didn’t start drilling holes or hammering nails. “Wall needs cleaning. New coat of paint, too.” Pete looked around. “Maybe over Christmas, if they close for a couple days. Get the worst of the smell out before people come back.”

José hummed. “I can help.” It was not before a couple months, but it wasn’t like he had any plans.

“You alone on Christmas?”

He shrugged. “Since my girl, you know.” Their families never got over Attica. She’d been named Leon, before. It had never been her name for as long as José had with her.

“Yeah.” Pete picked up the small picture of Battlin’ Jack. “Got a couple buddies around, but. It’s a time for family, yeah? Don’t got one anymore. Don’t want to be that guy, you know.” He didn’t measure the photograph. “Should put this in their kid’s office.”

“He’s blind, he won’t see it.”

“It’s his parents.”

José looked at it again. “Jack Murdock, _s_ _í_.”

“And the nun. That’s his mom.”

José hadn’t felt that surprised in a while. He looked up at Pete.

“You didn’t know? She comes by sometimes.”

Oh. “But…” She looked so young in the picture, maybe 18 or 20, wearing a novice’s white veil and looking both out of place and perfectly at ease near the boxing ring.

“They met, they had a kid, she was sick, she went back to being a nun. Karen never told you?” José shook his head. “Huh. Thought you knew.”

“Didn't know you could be a nun with a small kid.”

“No one knew, Karen said. Murdock, he only learned last year.”

José almost signed himself. Poor kid. “He never saw her face, then,” he said.

“Huh. No.” Pete seemed to take a moment to let that sink in, then waved the small frame. “So, what do you say? In his office or not?”

“Does he know what’s on it?”

Pete shrugged. “Pretty sure Karen’ll tell him if he doesn't.”

José wasn’t quite sure if it was better or worse – having a picture he could never see of the mother he never knew right next to him, or knowing his parents’ image was there as they hadn’t been when he was younger. But Pete knew Mr. Murdock better than him and so he only said, “Oh. Well then,” and he left while Pete went upstairs.

 

Pete’s name was actually not Pete. José found out early one November morning, as he came in to clean before Fogwell’s opened.

Mr. Murdock was there, tape on his hands and still sweaty from his workout. Pete was there too, except he was bleeding from a gash on his shoulder and more blood was seeping from a shallower cut on his eyebrow. And Mr. Murdock, Mr. Murdock was cleaning the wounds, and there was a suture kit on the bench next to him. José hoped he wasn’t planning on using it himself. Mr. Murdock's cane, leaning on the wall behind, was very white against the wall.

“Keep still, Frank,” he said. “How did – ” he stopped and he whipped his head to where José had just entered. Without his glasses, his eyes were unsettling; looking roughly in his direction but not quite focused. Sightless.

“It’s José,” not-Pete said.

“I kno – oh, good morning, José.” Mr. Murdock’s voice went from curt and angry to his more normal tones in a couple words.

“I’m sorry, I was just going to, you know. Before you open.”

“S’fine,” not-Pete said. You do your thing. We’re almost done here.”

“You need stitches.”

Maybe-Frank looked at his shoulder, the suture kit, Mr. Murdock and finally José. “Nah,” he said. He started to tape a dressing over his shoulder one-handed.

“I can – ”

“I can do it myself if I need to.”

Mr. Murdock frowned mightily, but stood up from the bench and took his gym bag like he wanted to punch it. “Suit yourself. I’m going to shower so our clients don’t run away when they smell me. You know where to find us,” he added after a beat.

Probably-Frank grunted and packed everything back into the kit. The gauze was already stained red, but he didn’t seem much bothered. He scratched at his beard, maybe the drying blood there was itching.

Once Mr. Murdock had left and they could hear the shower running, Frank turned to José. “You heard him call me something else,” he said.

José unfroze a little. “It’s not my business, Mr. Castiglione.”

“Pete’s fine, as I said. And it’s safer, for you.”

“All right, Mr. – Pete.” José waved at the shoulder. “Maybe I can help? Stitches, I can do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My girl, she was a nurse. Showed me how to, you know.”

“Got a lot of practice?”

“Eh, kids on my block, sometimes. When they can’t afford to go to a doctor, and there’s not too much blood.”

“You’re a good guy to know, José,” Fr- Pete said. He peeled the bloody bandage off. “Think you can stitch that?”

José peered at it. “ _S_ _í_ _, no problema_. What happened?”

“Some fucker, high on something. He and his buddies, they jumped me when I was walking my dog.”

“At night?” José snapped the gloves on.

“Less people around.”

“More junkies,” he said while squinting at the needle. His eyesight wasn’t what it had been, these days.

“Safer.”

José wondered what life Pete led that meant night-time junkies were safer than daylight people. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What did you do with the dog?”

Pete smiled. His teeth looked very white, surrounded by his dark beard. “Snoring in Red’s office,” he said.

“Red?”

Pete tilted his head in the locker room’s direction. “Red.”

“Oh, like the glasses.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Like the glasses.”

When José left, just before the first clients and gym regulars started to come, Pete was all patched up and playing with his dog in the alley behind Fogwell’s and Mr. Murdock was already working on his computer, one earbud in and his hair still damp.

The sun was just rising, and it made the frosted railings glint in the cold morning.

It would be a fine day, José thought.

 

The winter soon turned into the freezing and wet kind that made José’s joints ache and his fingers too stiff to be useful for much of anything. The heating was turned down at night at Fogwell’s, and it took a long time to warm up enough so that he could start his work. So, until spring came again, he tried to avoid coming in the mornings when the gym had turned frigid.

Ms. Karen had put up some tinsel and a few lights, and Mr. Nelson’s lady had insisted on a small tree. Mr. Nelson himself brought food more often than usual, and there was a little box left in the office fridge almost daily, with JOSÉ written on it and a Braille label underneath so Mr. Murdock would not steal from it, Ms. Karen had said.

José had told her he didn’t need charity, but she’d said he could see it as part of his salary since they couldn’t afford to give him a raise yet, and so he’d accepted it. Sometimes it was donuts, sometimes meat pies or sandwiches or ham from Nelson’s Meats. It was all pretty good.

There often was a box for Pete too, and sometimes even a bone for his dog. Max was very much like Pete; a scarred, powerful dog that looked like it had been in too many fights but hadn’t lost his doggy spirit yet. Max wagged his tail when José scratched that sweet spot behind his ears, and José hoped Pete would keep smiling at Ms. Karen like he never smiled to anyone else.

 

December was snowy, the kind of snow that turned into ice at night and into sludge mid-morning and made everything worse. Mrs. Cho broke her leg on the way back from the grocery, and Mr. Ndiaye’s car broke down and he asked José to help with his boys. Everyone was cold.

José wondered about all those people he read about in the papers. (He still bought papers. It made Mr. Ndiaye’s boys laugh to see his old brick-like phone, and they'd set up an email address for him, and helped him with all the paperwork you had to do online these days, but the rest of it… he preferred actual paper and ink. Bakary had told him it wasn’t really like before, that printing press wasn’t actually pressing print on paper anymore, but José didn’t really care. Besides, once he’d read it, the paper itself was useful; not like the expensive, breakable phones Mr. Ndiaye’s kids used.)

So, José read the papers. He read about people freezing to death in the streets, he read about overcrowded homeless shelters and people preferring to stay outside with their dog rather than inside without, leaving their best friend to perhaps die. He couldn't blame them, really. He wondered if Pete had ever been homeless, too. The papers often did articles about homeless vets, but Pete had said he had a small place somewhere, so there was that. He drove an old, beat-up truck too.

The papers also mentioned Danny Rand, and that was how José learned that the rich skinny boy was more than rich, and had a big company that made a lot of money. He'd apparently decided to create a foundation for people in need. José wasn't clear on the details, the article had mostly been about a big, rich people party where Mr. Rand had collected funds. José guessed he wasn't a bad kid, even if he was very rich. That also explained how he could easily fund the creation of Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock’s practice and the gym, too. José wasn’t about to complain.

 

Coming to Fogwell’s for work in winter also meant he was outside in the streets when it was dark, and he saw things then that you didn’t see in the light of day. He actually once saw Mr. Rand helping up an old man who’d been mugged and left lying on the cold, wet sidewalk. José left him to it, but he was surprised to see that however skinny he was, Mr. Rand didn’t have any difficulty hauling the old man up with one hand while holding the old man’s broken crutch in the other. José watched them make their way to a van and disappear inside.

Maybe José had forgotten how it was to be young and healthy and strong? It seemed so long ago now, or maybe Mr. Rand was more than met the eye. The old man had looked really heavy and could hardly stand without the crutch. Maybe Mr. Rand was one of those white, rich superheroes, like Mr. Stark from the papers. José shrugged, he didn’t know and it wasn’t really his world. Rich white men were not his world, Hell’s Kitchen was.

As he was walking to the gym, a thump and a groan made him raise his head. There on a low roof, he saw a figure stumble, lift a hand and wave it. It was holding something and speaking in angry tones, and from the voice he could guess it was a man. Another stumble, like he was drunk or – or, he was fighting with someone. A gunshot rang, there was another thump and a cut-off scream, and the man fell from the roof, still holding something in his hand. José looked at the dumpster he’d landed in, and hesitated. Should he check inside? He didn’t like guns. José looked up and saw another man standing on the roof, his silhouette clear against the billboard far behind. It looked like he was holding a hand against his gut, or maybe it was just on his hip. The man tilted his head as if he was listening to something, turned away and disappeared from view. José gave the dumpster a last look and decided not to check after all. He really didn't like guns.

 

A few blocks away from Fogwell’s at last – José was looking forward to being inside. Those vigilantes were not wearing much to protect against the cold or damp, but maybe all the jumping and punching kept them warm enough. He didn’t envy them, but he was still thankful for their dedication. They took care of the little people when the police couldn't. Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson wouldn't agree, but José believed Ms. Karen would. He remembered she’d been a reporter before, and Pete had showed him some of her articles. He was sweet on her, yes; but it was more than that. What she had written – it spoke to him, somehow. Could be it reminded Pete of what he’d gone through himself. Sometimes, it was really hard to let the past be; or maybe it was hard for the past to let you be.

As he was almost at the gym’s door, a loud rattle made José stop and look around. Sounded like someone jumping on a fire escape, but why jump and then stop moving altogether? Eventually, after a long minute, there was more rattling, but there also was the breathing kind of rattling. The bad news kind. There were some more noises and José finally spotted where it came from: the dark alley on his right. José didn’t feel like venturing in there, but what if they needed help? More metallic clanging, another groan, a raspy voice mumbling something, then a crash. José went in.

A dark shadow was halfway down the fire escape, a human shape half-sitting half-lying against the railing. They pushed themselves up and tumbled down the next flight of stairs, and landed with a scream cut short. It was a wonder no one had opened a window to yell at all the ruckus, but maybe even the most foul-mouthed New Yorker preferred to stay indoors on cold, cold nights. José didn’t blame them.

Right as he was stepping towards the metal stairs, the figure finally did the last stumble up, tumble down, and collapse maneuver to get to the ground. The fall must have been jarring enough to cut their breath short, because they were silent for a while. José hurried and heard them gurgle a little, trying and failing to catch their breath, fighting for every inhale and choking on spit, only to start again. It was a guy, wearing nothing thick enough for the weather and desperately trying to get up, to get back on his – José stared. It was Daredevil. He recognized the black mask from the papers.

What could he do to help? He looked like he was in bad shape, and José didn’t even know who to call. Fogwell’s was only a couple minutes away and it would be dry and not as freezing as out here, but could he even make it there? Daredevil turned his head and gasped something.

“I can take you to someplace warmer than here,” José said. “Not carry you, though.”

Daredevil was heavy, but also much smaller than he’d imagined. He wrapped an arm around his middle and felt all the hard muscle there, and no padding. No protection against the cold, or a knife, or anything. The dark hoodie on top of the thin, black clothes as sole concession to the weather wouldn’t have been able to do much to keep him warm, even if dry.

And it wasn’t dry anymore, and not only because of the frigid wet snow that had stiffened José’s knees and made them ache.

They hobbled to the mouth of the alley, and José didn’t know how Daredevil was still somewhat vertical. He didn’t seem to be aware of much, wheezing semi-regularly as if his lungs were not working properly and with his head lolling forward.

“Shit,” someone said when he pushed the door open.

José blinked at the lights inside. Oh. He’d forgotten it had been community night, or whatever it was Ms. Karen called it, earlier. Pete was still here, and his war buddy who filled in for Claire when she was busy. Looked like they had been working out, Mr. Hoyle was wearing shorts and José could see he had an artificial leg. As soon as he came in though, Pete and Mr. Hoyle left the bag to swivel on its hook and hurried to relieve him of Mr. Daredevil. They laid him out on a mat that was still on the floor.

“Curt,” Pete said.

“I see it.” The way Mr. Hoyle sounded, he wasn’t seeing anything good. He handed Pete some keys and added, “Go get my bag. It’s in the trunk.”

José hovered near them, not knowing what to do. Mr. Daredevil needed more than stitches, but he probably wouldn't want to go to a hospital. Mr. Hoyle must be used to hurt vigilantes, the way he was not even suggesting it.

“Here,” he said, and José helped him tear off the gloves, the wet hoodie and the black shirt underneath. Both had holes in them, and they were soaked with something stickier than just melted snow, as were the pants.

Pete thumped the bag down and made to remove the mask while his friend was snapping on gloves and doing things that José didn’t want to look at too closely. Closing up wounds was one thing, but this? He stopped Pete’s hand instead. “He doesn't want us to know who he is.”

“I know who he is,” Pete said and pulled the cloth off.

It was Mr. Murdock. “Oh,” José whispered. He didn’t know what else he could say.

“What do you know about him?” Mr. Hoyle asked. “Blood type, allergies, anything?” He was busy with tubes and syringes and suture kits and things José remembered from Attica’s old job. Mr. Hoyle held out a bag filled with a clear fluid and held it out to José. “Can you hold this up?” José did.

“I just know he’s blind,” Pete said. He brought a chair and tied the bag to it so José was free again to stand and do, well, nothing.

“Can I help?” he said.

“Maybe. What can you do? Shit, this guy’s a mess.” Mr. Hoyle was inspecting Mr. Murdock’s body, and José agreed: scars new and old, bruising in all kinds of colors, and blood. A lot of blood. Most of it had been wiped off, and there were two nasty-looking cuts and what looked like a gunshot wound in his thigh. “Shit.”

“Bandages, sutures,” José said. “I’m not good with anything else. Mr. Mur- Mr. Daredevil is very cold.” His skin was icy, and he wasn’t shivering.

“I know. Frank, can you–” Mr. Hoyle said. “Ah, sorry. Pete.” He didn’t look up from what he was doing, and José was careful to keep his eyes away. He wasn’t good with severe injuries.

“José knows,” Pete said, and left them to do whatever it was Mr. Hoyle wanted.

“All right, José. I may ask you to help later on, then. First though – ah, thanks.” Pete was back with heat packs, and they placed them around Mr. Murdock. José stared at the framed poster in front of him, the poster of Jack Murdock’s last fight. The one right before he died. Shot to death, he’d been. It had caused quite a stir, back then, what with the blind kid and all. José hoped the blind kid would live longer than his dad.

Mr. Murdock had a cross around his neck, the string soaked in blood. Maybe he could pray.

 

Time passed, enough that a cold, bleak light was starting to replace the dark of night in the windows. It was hard to tell how much time; José had spent much of it finding out he still remembered them all, the _Padre_ _n_ _uestros_ and _Avemaría_ _s_ and _Credos_ and _Gloria Patris_ of his youth. He was still reciting them when Mr. Hoyle told him to sew up one cut as he did another. He was still reciting them when they covered him with everything they could, he was still reciting them when Mr. Hoyle said Mr. Murdock’s temperature was better and that they couldn’t leave him lying in the middle of the gym.

“I can take him to his place,” Pete said.

“We can’t leave him alone, and I’d rather we didn’t take him outside yet.”

Pete sighed. “There’s the break room upstairs. It has a pull-out.” Mr. Hoyle raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I sleep there sometimes.”

“I thought you had a place.”

“I change often.”

Mr. Hoyle made a face, but didn’t comment. “Fine. Who’s staying with him? I have to go to my actual job in a couple hours.” They both looked at José.

“I’m the janitor,” he said. “I need to clean this place before it opens, that’s my job.” And it sure needed cleaning now.

Mr. Murdock’s breathing was changing, and all three of them got back on the floor. Pete was the quickest to get down, kneeling with a hand on Mr. Murdock’s arm. “Hey,” he said. Mr. Hoyle got a penlight out of his bag, then seemed to hesitate. “Nah,” Pete said, and Mr. Hoyle put the penlight back in.

“What’s his name?” he asked.

“Matt.” Pete said it directly to Mr. Murdock, who turned his head a little in his direction. His eyelids fluttered a little and he made a tiny sound, then started to move a little more. He was starting to panic except he was too weak to do much more than pant slightly, roll his head a little and try to get his arm out from under the space blanket. “Matt,” Pete repeated.

“Daddy?” His voice was really small, like a little boy’s. Pete’s face did something strange.

Mr. Hoyle must have seen José was unsettled because he shook his head and said, “Confusion is okay at this stage. Don’t worry, not yet.”

“He’s smelling the place, I think,” Pete said. “Hey. Hey, Red.” Mr. Murdock blinked a few times, as if it could make him see again. “You’re right, this is Fogwell’s. You’re injured, but you’ll be fine. Do you understand?”

Mr. Murdock’s mouth moved a little and then he said, “Frank?”

“That's me, Red.” José was realizing the nickname was probably from more than just the glasses.

“Oh. Okay,” and the sightless eyes closed again.

“Right. Let’s get him settled in that pull-out you talked about, and text me how it goes, all right? I’ll be back after work, unless there’s an emergency.”

“What about Mr. Murdock’s friends?” José asked.

“Shit. Yeah. Won’t be happy.”

“Well, at least he’ll live,” Mr. Hoyle said as he and Pete carried Mr. Murdock up.

José stayed downstairs and looked at the mess. He’d have to come again in the evening to finish his work. For now, he only had time to get rid of the medical trash and clean the floor so it didn’t look like a crime scene.

Mr. Nelson arrived before José was done, and he turned really pale. José pointed up and Mr. Nelson almost flew up the stairs, and he didn’t come back down to fetch the box of bagels he’d dropped at the sight of the bloodstained mat. José left it on a bench before going to Mr. Ndiaye’s.

 

José slept most of the afternoon before heading to Fogwell’s in the evening. He arrived right as Mr. Hoyle was leaving. They nodded at each other, and as he held the door Mr. Hoyle told him Mr. Murdock was doing well. That was good news.

José hesitated. Should he go up? He’d like to see how he was doing, but then again they were not close. His friends must be with him, and how would they all feel if the janitor came up for a chat? On the other hand, he’d have to go up to do his job anyway, but maybe that would disturb Mr. Murdock. He’d been in a really bad way last night. Cleaning could wait, perhaps.

As he was still worrying, Mr. Nelson walked down the stairs. He looked tired, but okay. “You should go up. Pete and Curt said you brought him here. I can’t thank you enough, José. You saved him.”

“He was bleeding, Mr. Nelson.” What else was he supposed to do?

“I know. He bleeds a lot.” He sighed. “Go on up, José. He asked after you.”

“Oh. Will do, Mr. Nelson.” After all these months, he had stopped asking José to call him Foggy, but the formality was visibly weighing on him. So José gave in, at last. “Mr. Foggy.”

Mr. Nelson finally smiled. “Ah, we’re getting there, eh?” He squeezed José’s shoulder and left the gym.

Well, no time like the present, right? So up he went.

Halfway there, Pete’s voice made him stop. He sounded angry, angrier than he’d ever heard him. Pete was usually a quiet guy, but right now he wasn’t, and he was yelling at Mr. Murdock. Who wasn’t very calm either, but his voice was much lower. Breathier. He shouldn't listen to that conversation, it wasn’t his place. José turned away but then Pete said, “… without the janitor!”

He didn’t like to eavesdrop, but that was a bit too much. He sat in the stairs, and listened.

At first, it was only silence. Then, “You should stop, Red. You don’t have what it takes. You won’t do what you need to do to make sure they don’t come back, and one day or another someone else will pay the price. One day, it’ll be you.”

“So be it,” Mr. Murdock answered.

“What will you do on the day José isn’t here to drag you in and Curt isn’t here to patch you up?”

“Guess I’ll die.” The silence after that made José’s gut tighten.

“Look,” Pete finally said. He sounded calmer. “You refuse to kill, and I respect that. It’s not you. I start out to kill, and you’re not me, and that’s a good thing.”

“You mocked me enough for it.”

Pete chuckled. José wasn’t sure he’d ever heard that sound before. “Yeah. You deserved it, all high and mighty on your white horse.”

“Can’t see the color of my horse.” There was a little thump. “Ow. Frank, I’m injured.”

“Your own fault.” Some shuffling, water poured in a glass. “Here, Curt said you should take two.”

“Ugh. They make me woozy.” More noises, like wool over fabric over skin. “Those sheets are scratchy.”

“They’re not. Listen, Red.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“I’m not wearing it anymore.”

“You should. You won’t kill them, and you won’t wear body armor. You’re taking too many risks. Just give it up before it kills you.”

“No.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know that? Nelson is furious.”

“He doesn’t like what I’m doing.”

“He doesn’t like – Red.” There was a groan. “ _Red_. You’re going out in fucking black pajamas. It’s even worse than your Halloween suit. You don’t want to use guns and you get up close and personal with people you won’t even finish off. Just give it up.”

“No. Frank, you know I won’t.”

“Yeah, well. I’m going to get them.”

“What?”

“Right now, I’m gonna put that bulletproof vest on, grab some weapons, and finish off this little ring you found. Can’t stand human traffickers.”

“They should face justice.”

“They’ll get me.”

“Frank, no! Don’t – ” Mr. Murdock’s words ending on a coughing fit, and José heard some rubbing and shuffling sounds.

“You’re down, Red. I’m just finishing what you started.”

“Not like that. Frank, not like that.”

“They need to be stopped for good. You found them, you crippled them. You did good. I’m just finishing it, Red. _You_ stay down, all right? Not like you can do much else.”

There was the creak of leather, heavy boots hitting the stairs, and José stood up and found himself face to face with – the Punisher. He remembered that face from the papers. It was a memorable face.

“Hey, José.”

“You shaved,” he said.

Pete, Frank, smiled. “Yeah.”

José didn’t know what to say. “Do you have to do it?”

“Are you going to stop me?”

He thought for a moment. “I couldn’t.”

“You afraid?”

“You wouldn't hurt me.”

“No.” They looked at each other for a moment.

“You go do what you have to do, Mr. Punisher.”

“Yeah. I will.” He looked back up the stairs for a minute. “We all do, yeah. Look, can you keep an eye on him? He’s only staying down because Curt threatened to give him stronger drugs if he didn’t behave, but…”

José nodded. “I will.”

Frank pulled a dark woolen cap over his head and left the stairwell. José waited until he heard the door close, then walked up the last steps.

“Good evening, Mr. Murdock.”

“José.” He didn’t have his glasses on.

“Mr. Punisher said you should be in bed.”

“I am.”

“You should be _entirely_ in bed.”

Mr. Murdock smiled and winced when it pulled on his split lip. “We lawyers are rubbing off on you, I think.”

“You were in a bad way last night.”

“I’m much better now. Thanks to you. I… thank you, José. You saved my life.” Mr. Murdock reached forward to the covers he’d pushed down and froze with his arm in the air.

José ignored the eyes that roved everywhere and sometimes rolled up a little and focused on helping Mr. Murdock settle back against the pillows and covering him up properly. “You don’t take good care of your life, Pete said.”

“You heard that, uh. I don’t need the suit anymore.” Well he did, given the number of scars he’d seen last night. No wonder he wore long-sleeved shirts all the time, or people would get suspicious. Or maybe it was just when José was around.

José sat in the chair next to the bed and looked away from Mr. Murdock’s unsettling eyes. They hadn’t been so all over the place the few times he’d seen them uncovered before. Maybe because he hadn’t been as tired and hurting then as he was now? “You should be more careful.”

“I wasn’t paying attention, that’s all. It’s on me.” He tilted his head. “You wouldn’t lose your job.”

“I am not worried about my job, Mr. – Mr. Daredevil. But the people here, they like you. If you take too many risks, then you can’t help anymore.”

“Oh. So you don’t think I should stop?”

“I couldn't stop you.”

“People have tried. I’ve tried.” He sighed. “It’s gonna kill me someday,” he whispered.

“God’s looking out for you.”

“You think?”

“And the people here, we’re looking out for you too. Hell’s Kitchen cares for its own.”

“You sure do, José.”

His eyes fluttered shut, and José watched him fall asleep. He should go back to his job, do what he was here for.

He took out the rosary he’d brought instead, the one his _abuela_ had always carried everywhere and that he’d kept to remember her by and hidden for what it represented. Maybe he could find faith again, after all. Here with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, who challenged death every day and never, ever stayed down. The lawyer who worked for those who couldn’t afford one, the kid who’d lost his sight to save someone else.

José remembered how the soft wooden beads felt between his fingers, how peaceful it made him to pray.

When he was done, he left the rosary in Mr. Murdock’s hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> José sprung out of my brain like Athena from Zeus' and so did Attica, the love of his life. Her name comes from [A Dog Day Afternoon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dog_Day_Afternoon), a film that made a big impression on wee me a long, long time ago.


End file.
